


How Do You Define Normal?

by Brumeier



Series: The Truth is Out There [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - X-Files Fusion, Attempted Murder, Case Fic, Episode: s05e19 Vegas, Gun Violence, Injury, Las Vegas, M/M, More Joy Day Fest, Mummies, Murder, Mutual Pining, Partnership
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28763046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/pseuds/Brumeier
Summary: John chooses another weird case for him and Rodney to investigate, this time mummies in Las Vegas. It turns out to be much more complicated than either of them would've expected.
Relationships: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Series: The Truth is Out There [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2108604
Comments: 23
Kudos: 40
Collections: Hurt/Comfort Bingo - Round 11





	How Do You Define Normal?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [squidgiepdx (squidgie)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidgie/gifts), [ArwenOak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenOak/gifts).



> Happy More Joy Day!
> 
> Also written for h/c bingo: minor illness or injury

Rodney arrived at work in the morning to find the corkboard covered with pictures of mummies. That was his usual tip-off to the latest case that had caught John’s eye, an ever-changing collection of crime scene photos, news articles, and archival snapshots of dubious origin.

“We’re not going to Egypt,” Rodney said before he even got to his desk. “The FBI has limits, John.”

FBI Special Agent John Sheppard was spinning around in his desk chair like a five-year-old instead of the seasoned, intelligent federal investigator he was supposed to be. Rodney would’ve been just as likely to find him building paper airplanes or throwing sharpened pencils up at the ceiling tile over his desk.

John stopped spinning and thrust an 8x10 photo at Rodney. “Check this out.”

Rodney accepted the photo, tossing his messenger bag on his own chair. He was looking at a body, withered and desiccated. 

“Lovely. I’m glad I ate already.” Rodney looked closer, trying to see if the background offered any clues, but it was completely nondescript. “Someone steal this mummy from a museum exhibit?”

“Better,” John said with a grin.

Rodney knew he was going to hate whatever came out of John’s mouth next, and he wasn’t disappointed.

“This guy was reported missing the day before his body was found. From his office, not a museum sarcophagus.”

“Impossible.” Rodney tossed the photo back on John’s desk. “It takes at least two weeks to dry out a body. Even you can spot a hoax.”

He’d grown accustomed to John’s eccentricities, but that didn’t mean he supported them. Yes, they’d seen some inexplicable things. Rodney wasn’t so egotistical as to claim he knew the answers to everything, but that didn’t mean reasonable, scientific answers weren’t out there.

Rodney turned his computer on and stuffed his messenger bag under his desk. It wasn’t very glamorous, working out of a basement room with ‘Spooky’ Sheppard, but Rodney had come to enjoy the challenge of the cases they investigated. Anyone could tackle a kidnapping or a serial killer, but it took a special type of agent to deal with the so-called X-files.

“It’s not a hoax, McKay,” John insisted. “I have autopsy results, and fingerprints that prove our mummy is actually Dennis Crocker, who was captured on CCTV at a bar the night before his body was found.”

Rodney logged into the network and opened up his email. Sure enough, there was an email from John with attachments. With a sigh, Rodney opened it and started to read. And felt a growing sense of resignation.

“When do we leave?” he asked once he’d finished with the official reports.

John just grinned at him.

*o*o*o*

Fabulous Las Vegas. Rodney wasn’t a fan. Too bright, too noisy, too many stupid people being convinced to part with their money on games of chance. It was hot, it was dry, and all things being equal Rodney would rather be back in D.C.

“Isn’t this great?” 

John was wide-eyed and entirely too cheerful, his skin reflecting the varied neon colors flashing off the buildings around them. Rodney had no idea how his partner was able to maintain such a childlike air after everything he’d seen over the course of his employment with the agency. Amongst other things.

“No. It’s crowded,” Rodney corrected. “Where are we going?”

“We’re in Sin City, McKay. You can get anything you want here.”

“And that would be?”

John grinned. “We’re going to see a man about a mummy.”

Rodney rolled his eyes. “You’re such a child.”

He wouldn’t admit how absurdly endearing he found John sometimes. Give that man an inch and he’d take a mile. But somewhere along the line, Rodney had started feeling protective of John. He was fearless, and sometimes careless, and far more gullible than any federal agent had a right to be.

Sometimes John needed to be protected from himself.

The Medical Examiner’s office should have been closed at that hour, but somehow John had arranged for them to get in and see the body. The Sheppard charm at work again, no doubt.

“Ten minutes,” the young woman said in a hushed voice. “That’s all I can give you.”

She told them which drawer and then left them to it, slipping back out into the hall. John opened the door and pulled the body out. Crocker looked even worse in person, so dry he might crumble to dust, his limbs constricted, and mouth twisted in a rictus of pain.

“Shit,” Rodney said. 

“You can say that again,” John replied. “You’re the big brain here, McKay. What could do this to a man overnight?”

“Nothing. No amount of salt or desiccant could work so fast. Unless…”

“Unless?”

“Maybe the body had already been drained of most fluids. That might speed up the process. But even so, overnight? Unlikely.”

Rodney wasn’t a biologist, or a medical doctor, so he couldn’t be a hundred percent certain of that. He also wasn’t an idiot, and he knew how desiccants worked.

John leaned closer to the body, which smelled a little like beef jerky. “What’s this?”

He pointed out a faint mark on Crocker’s chest, something that might have had a pattern. It was difficult to make out.

“Tattoo?” Rodney guessed.

“Or maybe it was left behind by the device that was used to suck him dry.”

Rodney snorted. “Device? What device? A souped-up Electrolux?”

“Stranger things,” John mused.

Their ten minutes was up, and they were practically pushed out the door.

“So now what?” Rodney asked.

John looked at him, a gleam in his eye. “What else? I got us tickets to a magic show.”

*o*o*o*

There were countless luxury hotels along the Strip, with minibars and giant beds and marble bathrooms. Unfortunately, the federal government didn’t see fit to put their two basement-dwelling agents in luxury accommodations. Instead, they were sharing a room at Aladdin’s Lamp, which was a step below a Motel 6 in Rodney’s estimation.

It was a good thing he traveled with his own sheets.

After a wholly unsatisfactory continental breakfast, John and Rodney drove out of town and into the desert, to the site where Crocker had been found. They didn’t have to go far. There hadn’t been much of an attempt to hide the body.

The police tape flapped in the breeze, marking off the scene. There wasn’t much to see, beyond hard-packed dirt and some scrubby bushes. The ground was too firm to offer up much in the way of footprints, and there was no sign of a struggle.

“What do you think?” Rodney asked, pulling at the collar of his shirt. Dry heat was still heat. “Ancient Egyptian aliens?”

John gave him a sour look. “Not everything is aliens, McKay.”

“That’s a delightful change of pace. Can we go now before I’m the one who mummifies?”

The remainder of their morning was spent meeting with local law enforcement – LVPD dealt with weird stuff on the regular, but they were more than happy to turn over the mummy case to the feds – a proper meeting with the ME, and informal interviews with Crocker’s employer, co-workers, and friends.

“Why kill a guy that boring?” Rodney wondered over lunch. “Where’s the thrill?”

Crocker was an estate planner, unmarried, not active in the dating scene. He didn’t even have so much as a goldfish to keep him company. None of the clients he’d currently been working with were noteworthy enough for that to have been an angle in his murder. Hell, the guy had the equivalent of season tickets to Cirque du Soleil. He wasn’t a player.

“Do you ever regret it?” John asked around a mouthful of turkey sandwich.

“Regret what? This chicken salad? Absolutely. Who uses Miracle Whip instead of mayo? Surely I can arrest someone for that.”

Rodney scowled at his sandwich. A town full of world-class restaurants and John had insisted on the local cafeteria, which was walking distance from the police department.

“If you’d stayed with the CIA, you’d be doing more interesting work,” John said. “And you’d have cooler gadgets.”

“No. I don’t regret giving the CIA the shaft. They were too pushy.”

The US government had taken an interest in Rodney when he’d built a working model of a nuclear bomb, minus the plutonium, when he was twelve. The CIA had pushed him hard once he graduated high school. Rodney was smart enough, even then, to see the value in the work the federal agencies were doing. He liked solving problems, figuring things out. He’d eventually chosen to work with the FBI just to spite those pushy CIA bastards.

“Besides,” Rodney continued. “You don’t see those assholes investigating a modern-day mummy.”

John didn’t ask the other question Rodney knew was in his mind, because John almost asked it a lot. If he didn’t know better, Rodney might think John was afraid of the answer he’d receive.

Did Rodney regret getting assigned to work the X-files with John?

Yes. And no. It was a complex question, relying as it did on so many data points. The perception of the X-files project within the FBI, the prospect of career advancement, Rodney’s relationship with John, the ups and downs of the actual work – all of it had to be factored in.

When it came down to it, the answer Rodney would give to the unasked question would depend on the day it was asked.

*o*o*o*

A second body turned up after midnight, this time adjacent to the well-traveled, brightly lit Strip. It was a break for John and Rodney because hopefully the mummy-maker had been captured on CCTV.

“Female this time,” John needlessly pointed out.

“The sequined unicorn shirt and bedazzled bra were subtle clues,” Rodney replied dryly. 

If not for the clothes, they’d have had to look at the withered genitals to know for sure. All human bodies achieved an androgynous appearance when they were mummified.

“No ID,” said the officer who’d been first on the scene. “My guys checked the alley but there’s no sign of a purse or wallet.”

“Hopefully the ME can get prints or dental records,” John said. With one gloved finger he pushed down the sparkly shirt. “Same mark.”

“Could be a link to Crocker. Some sort of shared club, maybe, with matching tattoos.”

John didn’t look convinced.

“I’ve got men canvassing,” the officer interjected. “But it’s unlikely we’ll find any eyewitnesses.”

Rodney could believe that. Who’d be looking down an alley when there were pirate ships and erupting volcanoes? Vegas had been engineered to pull focus where it was wanted, on the shiny bits, so no-one saw the seedy underbelly. But even the brightest city had a dark side.

“Our unsub is getting bolder. Or more desperate,” Rodney mused, staring at the crowd gathered behind the police cordon at the mouth of the alley. “His chances of getting caught here were much higher. Why risk it?”

“He didn’t bother hiding the first body,” John pointed out. He got to his feet and pulled off his gloves. “Unless that wasn’t his first.”

“He’s methodical. Mummifying someone takes time – normally – and there’s a process that needs to be followed. It’s not a crime of passion, or a moment of uncontrollable rage.”

John sighed. “We don’t know enough yet. Hopefully the autopsy will shed some light. Meanwhile, let’s get you some coffee. We’ll be reviewing CCTV footage all night.”

“I hate Vegas,” Rodney grumbled.

*o*o*o*

Rodney woke with a crick in his neck and a painful twinge in his vertebrae. He’d fallen asleep at the conference table the LVPD had provided him and John as a workspace.

“Good morning!” John chirped cheerfully, though there was no hiding the bags under his eyes. “Coffee and a doughnut. Breakfast of champions.”

John handed him the items in question and Rodney just stared at them for a long moment, still fuzzy headed from sleep.

“What?”

“Look alive, McKay. We have work to do.”

Rodney just grumbled at him and shuffled off to the bathroom. Once he’d taken a piss, rinsed out his mouth, and flattened his hair back in place, he felt slightly more human.

He had no doubt John had stayed up all night, watching endless CCTV feeds of tourists wandering up and down the sidewalk, looking for some sign of either the mummy or the person who’d left it in the alley.

“I assume you’re this chipper because you found something,” Rodney said when he returned to the conference room. He ate the doughnut with fervor.

John pulled up the footage on the laptop. He’d found their mummy – the sequined shirt practically glowed – only she was mobile and still…juicy.

“Look at the time stamp,” John said, even more gleefully.

“Impossible,” Rodney protested. But it was right there on the screen. 

Their latest victim had been found, fully mummified, less than an hour after she showed up on camera. There was no way that could’ve happened.

“Any sign of who grabbed her?”

“This is the best shot we have.” John tapped a few keys and pulled up a still shot of the victim walking arm-in-arm with someone wearing a ballcap, long hair pulled through the hole in the back. Tall and thin, it could’ve been a man or a woman. 

“Our potential killer never faced the camera,” John said.

“Of course not. That would be too easy.”

The laptop started making a familiar melodic noise, indicating someone wanted to video chat. 

“Little early for a date,” Rodney remarked.

“I called an expert.” John pulled up the chat screen and answered the call. “Hey, Danny!”

A bespectacled, shaggy blonde head filled the laptop screen. “John. Hi. I got your message.”

“You called the anthropologist?” Rodney hissed. “How is that helpful?”

“Nice to see you again, Rodney,” Daniel said.

“Wish I could say the same. Why are you on my laptop, Jackson?”

John nudged Rodney with his shoulder. “Be nice. Danny is an expert on ancient Egypt. I thought he might have some insight into our mummy.”

“It’s not that kind of mummy,” Rodney and Daniel said at the same time.

John raised an eyebrow. Rodney scowled at the laptop.

“I read the reports you sent me,” Daniel said, shuffling some papers offscreen. “Anyone mummified in the traditional way would have their organs removed, their body ritually cleaned and packed in natron for at least seventy days before being wrapped in several layers of linen.”

“That’s a dumbed-down version,” Rodney criticized. 

“The point is, the person turning these people into mummies isn’t following any kind of classic ritual.”

“That would be obvious even to a lay person,” Rodney argued. “The real question is how is it being done so quickly?”

Daniel shook his head. “It can’t. The quickest mummification would still take about two weeks, if a body was left in the middle of an arid desert. Weeks, not hours.”

“John has a theory about some sort of desiccation machine.”

This time John gave him a shove, making Rodney’s chair roll. “Do you have to make me sound like a crackpot?”

“You _are_ a crackpot,” Rodney said, rolling back up to the table.

“I can reach out to some people,” Daniel offered. “But I haven’t personally heard of anything.”

“Thanks, Danny,” John said. “I really appreciate it.”

The video chat ended, and John rubbed his hand over his face.

“You look like shit.” Rodney shut down the laptop. “Go back to the motel, get a couple hours of sleep. I can carry on here.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

That capitulation came too easily. “I mean it, John. Straight to bed.”

“Yes, mother.”

Even John’s cowlicks were drooping. Rodney watched him leave, hoping he didn’t have any ideas about following up on a harebrained hunch. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Idiot,” Rodney grumbled fondly.

*o*o*o*

The second victim was Kiley Ray, a college kid from Nebraska celebrating her twenty-first birthday with friends. They all remembered seeing her with a guy in a baseball cap but were drunk enough that getting a sketch proved useless.

The tattoo proved to be a dead-end as well, since a deep background search revealed no connection at all between Crocker and Ray. So if it wasn’t a tattoo, what was it? Part of the unsub’s mummification ritual?

Which still didn’t answer the question of how the victims were so quickly mummified.

With no new information at hand, Rodney picked up lunch – better quality stuff this time – and went back to the motel. As expected, John wasn’t sleeping. He was reading through a file, and when Rodney let himself in, John got cagey about it.

“I know that look,” Rodney said. “And I don’t like it.”

“Is that lunch?” John deflected. “I’m starving!”

Rodney thrust the bag of takeout at John and snatched the file from his hand.

“Hey!”

Rodney waved him off and sat on the bed, flipping through the file. It contained information on other mummies, almost identical to the ones that had turned up in Vegas. Two in British Columbia from three years ago, five in Tennessee four years before that. There were autopsy results and crime scene photos.

“I see you had a visit from your special friend,” Rodney said. He tossed the file aside. “John –”

“They’re just trying to help.”

John was already digging into the food and didn’t see the scowl that Rodney aimed in his direction.

Rodney wasn’t supposed to know that John’s ex-wife, Nancy, a high-ranking federal official who worked out of the Pentagon, periodically fed John information pertinent to whatever case they were working on at the time. Sometimes it was purposeful misinformation, but John continued to trust her despite Rodney’s objections.

“Help who?”

“You saw the file,” John said.

“It doesn’t give us any more information than we already have, John.”

In response, John pulled a piece of paper out from under the takeout containers. “I beg to differ.”

Rodney found himself looking at a sketch that was more Halloween mask than person: a mouth full of jagged teeth, deformities around the nose, pronounced brow. 

“Is this supposed to be evidence?”

“It’s based on eyewitness testimony, McKay. From the cases in BC.”

“Was this eyewitness high at the time?”

Rodney tried for a joking tone, but he had a sinking feeling he knew where John was going to go with that sketch. And if there was an avenue that Rodney didn’t want to go down, it was aliens. John was obsessive on that topic, to a detrimental degree. The times when Rodney had most feared for his partner’s life had involved investigations into aliens and UFO sightings.

“There’s nothing in the X-files about aliens mummifying people,” John said eagerly. “Don’t you see what that means? This is something new!”

Rodney shook the paper at him. “ _This_ is a child’s drawing of the boogey man! There’s a normal, scientific explanation for what’s happening out here.”

“That depends on how you define normal,” John replied in a chilly tone. “It wouldn’t kill you to have an open mind for once.”

“And it wouldn’t kill you to be more logical!”

As usual, there was no changing John’s mind. He scooped up his jacket and the keys to the rental car. 

“I’m going out.”

“John, wait.”

The motel room door closed with a definitive thud.

*o*o*o*

While John was off pouting somewhere, and hopefully not getting forcibly removed from a casino for counting cards, Rodney spent an hour on the phone trying to track down the eyewitness that had supplied the weird sketch. Three years wasn’t that long, but people moved, other people lost track of them.

He finally found Elodee Blanks in Manhattan. A high school student at the time of the account, she was now enrolled in NYU as a journalism major.

“Ms. Blanks? This is Agent Rodney McKay with the FBI. Do you have a minute to talk?”

_Very funny, Brad!_

“Agent McKay,” Rodney corrected. “I’d like to talk to you about a statement you gave the police three years ago in Vancouver.”

There was silence for a long moment.

_Holy crap. You’re really from the FBI?_

“I can give you a number to call for verification.”

_No, that’s okay. Um…what did you want to know? That was ages ago._

Rodney pulled out the picture of the suspected unsub. “I have the police sketch of the individual you saw. Can you tell me what happened?”

_Yeah. Okay. Um…I was late for play practice, so I cut through the park. Miles Park, by the school._

“What time was that?” Rodney asked, taking notes.

_I don’t remember exactly. Practice was around five, so maybe quarter past?_

“Tell me what you saw.”

_I thought at first it was just a couple guys getting into a fight_ , Elodee said haltingly. _But the man on top, he…he wasn’t normal. His skin was like greasepaint, and he had long, long hair._

Greasepaint. That wasn’t in the report. Rodney hoped they weren’t looking for a clown. He could put up with a lot in the course of justice, but he drew the line at clowns.

_He had the other guy on the ground, on his back, and he was –_

“Ms. Blanks?” Rodney prompted.

_I’ll never forget the horrible sounds he made, Mr. McKay. I heard him dying. It wasn’t anything like in the movies._

Rodney could hear the tremor in Elodee’s voice. She believed what she was telling him.

“Did you see a weapon in the first man’s hand?”

_I didn’t see anything. Maybe he had it in his other hand. The one he wasn’t holding the man down with. I ran then, and when I got to school, I told Mr. Felder what I saw, and he called the police._

Rodney asked a few follow-up questions and gave Elodee his cell number in case she thought of anything else. Then he sat back and looked at his notes. She’d witnessed the murder of one Chad Sumner, whose mummified body had been found in that same park shortly after the police had arrived on the scene.

They were still no closer to discovering the method of mummification that was being used.

“Agent McKay?” Detective Wellman poked his head in the conference room. “We just received a 911 call. A man was attacked in his hotel room.”

“Unless he’s been desiccated, I don’t think –”

“Agent Sheppard called it in.”

Rodney sighed and grabbed his suit jacket. “Let’s go.”

*o*o*o*

The parking lot of the Sojourner Lodge was full of cop cars and an ambulance, and the requisite gathering of lookie-loos. Rodney got there in time to see a gray-haired man being loaded into the ambulance by EMTs. He was a little bruised and bloody, but he was most certainly not a mummy.

John was standing nearby, talking to a uniformed officer. He had a gash over his eye and a split lip, and he was sporting a temporary splint on his wrist. John’s state of disarray was ridiculously commonplace; he often jumped in where he wasn’t wanted.

“This better be good,” Rodney said, effectively boxing out the officer and ending whatever conversation had been underway.

“McKay –”

“What are you even doing here? This isn’t in our search area, or anywhere near the dive we’re staying in.”

“Rodney –”

“Do you think we have time to deal with random violence right now? We’re working a case, which you seem to have forgotten in your misplaced zeal to –”

“Meredith!” John snapped.

Rodney almost bit his tongue. “I told you never to call me that!” he hissed.

The officers standing closest tried, and failed, to hide their amusement. Rodney would never forgive John for prying into his personnel file and finding out his first name.

“It was our guy,” John said. “I had him!”

He held up his uninjured hand, which was smeared with something beige. 

“Do I even want to know?”

“Makeup. He’s wearing lots of it and dying his hair. I could see the roots.” John scowled at his own hand. “I had him and I let him get away.”

Rodney didn’t get the full story until they were in the rental car headed to the hospital, so John could get checked out and Rodney could talk to the victim, Cory Chambers.

John had gone looking for the unsub on his own, choosing an area equidistant from Crocker’s apartment and Ray’s hotel. It was much too early in the investigation to narrow down a hunting ground, especially given the fact that Crocker’s body had been found in the desert, but in typical Spooky Sheppard fashion, John had stumbled across the unsub in the middle of attacking Chambers in the man’s own hotel room.

“I heard sounds of distress, so I busted down the door.”

“Of course you did,” Rodney muttered.

“He had Chambers on the floor, holding him down with one hand,” John continued. “I rushed him, knocked him off, and then we grappled.”

“I can see that,” Rodney said with a sideways look at John’s head. Hopefully he wouldn’t need stitches this time.

“He was strong. Unnaturally strong.”

“Drugs, maybe,” Rodney mused. “Some synthetic drugs have been known to give users superhuman strength. Accelerated heart rates, accelerated levels of adrenalin.”

“I discharged my weapon, McKay. Four times, at point blank range. Didn’t even slow him down.”

Rodney took a moment to digest that information. John had some of the highest scores on the firing range. In the small, enclosed space of a hotel room it was unlikely he’d have missed all four times.

“And there’s this.” John held his cell phone up where Rodney could see without taking his eyes completely off the road.

“What am I looking at?”

“What we thought was a tattoo? This is what it looks like when it’s fresh.”

Rodney tried to take a closer look without driving them into a light pole. John was right, it wasn’t a tattoo. It was a wound, raw and red and clearly defined.

“I’d sure like to know what the hell this means,” Rodney said. “I’m sure you already have a theory.”

If he did, John wasn’t willing to share it. At least not yet.

*o*o*o*

John was lucky. He didn’t need stitches.

Rodney was unlucky, because what should’ve been a simple interview with Chambers turned decidedly weird. The gray-haired man that Rodney had assumed was in his late fifties or early sixties turned out to be in his mid-twenties. His medical records confirmed that fact.

The account Chambers gave was singularly unhelpful. He bumped into the unsub outside his hotel. The guy said he was lost and needed some help. Next thing Chambers knew, the unsub forced his way into the room and attacked without warning. After that, all he remembered was pain, incredible pain, and a sensation of being drained.

They’d know more after the test results came back, but Rodney had gotten a better look at the wound on Chambers’ chest. It consisted of a long, narrow vertical gash surrounded by five small depressions. Photographs and tissue samples had been sent back to Quantico in the care of Dr. Carson Beckett.

“There has to be something in that hotel room,” John insisted. “I shot him. There has to be DNA.”

“CSI already did a sweep,” Rodney reminded him.

“I’d still feel better if we took a look ourselves.”

Rodney drove them back to the Sojourner Lodge, lost in his own thoughts. He hated to admit it, and certainly wouldn’t be doing so aloud, but maybe John was right about there being a mummification device. The chest wounds on the two corpses and Chambers seemed to support that.

But how would such a device even work? Where did all the excess fluids go? And how could something that seemed to fit in one hand be so powerful?

“McKay,” John said. 

He didn’t need to point them out. Rodney saw the three black SUVs driving in the opposite direction. They may as well have had ‘Property of US Government’ painted on the side. He’d worked the X-files long enough to get a sinking feeling at the sight of them.

“Step on it,” John said tersely.

They were too late. Chambers’ room was so clean it was practically gleaming. No police tape, no evidence that CSI had been there. Hell, no evidence that people had been there. Rodney was certain that if they applied a blue light to the room not even the copious semen stains that usually adorned such places would show up.

“You thinking NSA?” Rodney asked, watching John stalk around the room with angry steps.

“I’m thinking covert retrieval team. I’ll bet they’ve intercepted any evidence CSI collected, too. Fuck!”

Rodney didn’t bother trying to offer words of encouragement. It wasn’t the first time they’d had a case taken out from under them, valuable evidence destroyed or gone missing and witnesses disappeared. As hard as John was trying to uncover the truth about extraterrestrials, someone else was working just as hard to keep a lid on things. It was almost enough to make Rodney believe.

Almost.

“This proves I’m right,” John said.

“Right about what?”

“The mummy maker. He’s an alien.”

Rodney snorted. “You are the most infuriatingly single-minded man I have ever had the misfortune of working with.”

“You got a better explanation for everything that’s happened?”

“I have logic and common sense. The unsub is using some cutting-edge tech. Once we get our hands on it, I can tell you exactly how it works.”

John rolled his eyes. “How is it okay for you to believe in something without a shred of evidence, but not me?”

Rodney felt a very slight twinge of guilt at that. It was true he didn’t put much stock in John’s many and varied alien conspiracy theories. They’d never found any tangible evidence to substantiate the existence of extra-terrestrials, despite John’s sometimes desperate attempts to the contrary.

Science, on the other hand, offered more logical explanations. Even if it was inexplicable at the precise moment, Rodney truly believed logic and intelligence would win the day.

“I was in the room with him, McKay. He didn’t have any device. The only thing he had pressed to Chambers’ chest was his hand.”

“Nanotechnology could –”

John threw his hands up. “How the hell is that more plausible than aliens?”

“Because nanotechnology exists, and aliens are still unsubstantiated!”

It was a common argument between the two of them. John was always so willing to believe the unbelievable – aliens, psychokinesis, lake monsters – but Rodney needed proof. Hard evidence. Something that science could corroborate. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe there could be life on other planets. The universe was too vast to assume other forms of life hadn’t developed elsewhere. But to believe aliens were traveling across those vast differences to probe people or mutilate cattle was laughable in the extreme. Any alien race with that type of technology would either be coming with a hostile takeover in mind, or to strike some sort of alliance.

“Look, Sheppard. Caldwell sent us down here to figure out who’s turning people into mummies and how. It’s not aliens, or mole men, or werewolves. It’s a man. You saw him today.”

“Sure. Fine. Whatever.” John pushed past Rodney. “Let’s go. There’s nothing for us to find here, and I need a change of clothes.”

Rodney followed, biting back the further criticisms he had. The goal he needed to focus on was finding their unsub. He’d worry about John’s hurt feelings later.

*o*o*o*

Speaking of ill-advised and dubious assistance, when they got back to the motel and John cleaned himself up, he placed a call to his other source of information: three fringe-dwellers who operated a conspiracy theory website.

“Gall, it’s Sheppard.”

_I hope you’re calling from a secured line_ , Gall said. John had him on speaker.

“You’re scrambling it anyway,” John pointed out.

_Can’t be too careful_ , Gall replied cheerfully. _How are you enjoying Sin City?_

“How do they know where we are?” Rodney hissed.

_Is that Agent McKay?_ Gall’s compatriot and the second of the trio, Abrams, shouted into the phone. _I have some new theories for him on that topic we discussed last time._

“Not now,” John said. “What can you tell me about aliens who suck the life out of people and turn them into mummies?”

“You are a ridiculous human being,” Rodney sighed.

He dropped down on his bed, laying back to contemplate the ceiling tiles. Was that mold?

_Give me the phone._

_You don’t have to get pushy!_

_This is my area!_

“Boys!” Sheppard said. “Play nice.”

_Bill Lee here, Agent. Is that what you’re investigating in the desert? Mummies?_ Lee sounded eager as always. _We’ve logged in reports from six different states and two Canadian provinces regarding non-traditional, quick-made mummies._

“What’s the current thinking?” Sheppard asked.

_A rumor was going around about Egyptian cultists, but that was obviously wrong given the lack of proper ritual._

_There’s no extraterrestrial biological entity that can do it_ , Gall interrupted. _We’d know._

_You don’t know everything_ , Lee responded snappishly. _I posit there could be an as-yet-unknown type of E.B.E. that feeds off people in a way that creates a mummified effect. They consume all the fluids in the human body, perhaps because their own bodies don’t produce the necessary nutrients._

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Rodney said, loudly enough to be heard by the trio of whackjobs on the other end of the phone.

_It’s all just bodily fluids_ , Agent McKay, Abrams said. _No different than vampires drinking blood._

_Blood, sweat, and tears_ , Lee quipped. _I believe this E.B.E. has newly arrived on our planet. The mummies started showing up a little over two years ago._

_There’s been some military chatter_ , Gall said. _Air Force mostly, out of Cheyenne Mountain. They know something’s up, and they’re already planning a coverup._

“Keep your ears to the ground,” Sheppard said. “I you hear anything else even remotely related to this, I want to know it.”

_You got it, G-man._

John ended the call. “I knew the military would be involved,” he said, tapping his cell phone against his chin. “Do you know how many pilots report UFOs each year, McKay?”

“No-one knows, because the military isn’t about to release any real data related to extraterrestrials,” Rodney replied. “Regardless of what your Lone Gunmen have to say on the issue.”

“There’s something here, McKay,” John insisted. “Why else sanitize Chambers’ room?”

Rodney had to admit he didn’t know. “We need to find out more about Chambers. Maybe it’s not a coincidence, the unsub being there. Maybe there’s something about Chambers.”

It was pretty thin, but still more reasonable than aliens.

*o*o*o*

Chambers was a dead end. He was just a random guy from out of town who’d had the misfortune of running across the unsub. He was in serious but stable condition at the hospital.

Where they did get lucky was CCTV from the Sojourner Lodge parking lot, which showed the unsub fleeing Chambers’ room and getting into a rusty-looking pickup. LVPD techs were able to enhance the video enough to make out the license number.

“The truck is registered to a Vincent Paterno of Henderson,” Rodney said, dangling the car keys in front of John’s face. “Let’s go.”

Henderson was about sixteen miles south of Las Vegas, and Paterno lived in a housing community where all the houses were cookie-cutter similar. The only thing that distinguished Paterno’s home from his neighbors was a rainbow flag flapping next to the front door.

“Mr. Paterno.” John knocked on the door. “FBI.”

Rodney had one hand on his weapon, but the man who opened the door was neither tall nor thin. Instead, he was heavyset and 5’5” at the most. 

“Help you?”

“FBI,” John repeated. “Are you Vincent Paterno? Owner of a dark blue 1994 Dodge Dakota?”

“I sold that rust bucket,” Paterno said. “Got top dollar for it.”

“Who did you sell it to?” Rodney asked.

Paterno shrugged. “Dunno. Some Slender Man looking schmuck.”

Rodney didn’t have a good feeling. The unsub had probably paid cash, and Paterno wouldn’t have any record of the transaction. Another dead end.

“Is there anything you can tell us about him?” John asked, though Rodney could tell by the tone of his voice he’d come to the same conclusion.

“Yeah. Sure. Come on in.”

Paterno’s house reflected the psyche of a man whose best days had been in college, no doubt as part of a fraternity. The furniture was battered, there were school pendants and pictures on the walls, a dartboard, a fish tank, empty pizza boxes – Paterno was clearly a bachelor.

“I got this,” he said, pulling a metal box out from under his couch. 

From the box, to Rodney’s eternal surprise, Paterno produced a bill of sale with a name and address.

“I keep records,” Paterno said. “You never know when something’s gonna come back and bite you in the ass.”

Another name, another potential clue: Adam Johnson.

*o*o*o*

There were thirty-seven Adam Johnsons in Nevada, none of them residing at the address on the bill of sale. LVPD ran them all, which took time, and then Rodney and John sorted through the results to see if any of them matched the description of their unsub. None of them did.

The only lead they had was the truck, which meant it was back to CCTV. Rodney ran all the footage through a modified facial recognition program he’d created, which would flag all occurrences of Johnson’s truck. It was a hell of a lot quicker than going through all the footage themselves.

While they waited for the results, Rodney insisted on a proper meal in a proper restaurant. They went to the Sahara, which was closest to the police station, even though John wanted to hit up a standard-issue casino buffet.

“You’re such a hedonist,” John said with a smirk.

“I appreciate fine food. There’s nothing hedonistic about that.”

Grassfed Wagyu beef absolutely qualified as fine food, and Rodney savored every bite. John had gotten the plainest piece of chicken on an otherwise outstanding meat menu, which spoke volumes about his state of mind. The man’s middle name was Denial.

“So explain the life-sucking alien thing to me,” Rodney said when he was halfway through his meal and feeling mellow.

John didn’t need any more encouragement than that to launch into his theory.

“Exploratory recon,” he said, elbows on the table. “One or two of these guys is here checking things out, which is why there are only a handful of cases.”

“So why do we have two dead bodies and a guy in the hospital? Seems like an escalation.”

John’s eyes gleamed. “Could be they’re sick and need to replenish sooner.”

“You’re a smart guy, Sheppard, all evidence to the contrary.” Rodney sipped his cranberry spritzer. “Do you know what the odds are that an extraterrestrial species would be able to blend in, pass as human?”

“It’s not beyond the realm of possibility.”

“It’s an astronomical chance. I don’t deny the possibility of life on other planets, but I think it’s ridiculous to assume that life would progress in exactly the same way there as here.”

John grinned. “Similar enough to create a bipedal organism that can breathe our air and hide in plain sight.”

“Nothing shakes your belief, does it?” Rodney admired John’s loyalty and dogged determination, even if it was misplaced.

“You haven’t seen what I’ve seen,” John said. All traces of humor were gone. “You don’t know what I know.”

Rodney let the silence spin out between them while he finished up his steak. He knew better than anyone that all John really had was the job, the work. The constant search for answers. It was Rodney’s job to make sure he didn’t get carried away, spiral off the deep end.

“Listen, Sheppard. I’m not agreeing with you about our unsub being an E.T. But I’m not disagreeing either.” Rodney waved the waitress over and pulled out his credit card. He’d make sure the Bureau reimbursed him. “But you have to agree it might be a very terrestrial issue.”

John gave him an assessing look. “Okay. I’ll try to be a little less single-minded.”

“Good. Let’s see if CCTV gave us anything worthwhile.”

*o*o*o*

Johnson’s truck headed out of town north on 15, and then it dropped out of CCTV range. John and Rodney took the same road, first thing in the morning, looking for signs of where he might have gone. Just outside of Arrolime the road split off on the left.

“Which way?” John asked, stopping the car at the gas station at the intersection. 

Rodney consulted the GPS map on his phone.

“Take 93. It’s less populated.”

He was sure Johnson was out in the desert somewhere, holed up between killings. No better feeding ground than Vegas, with its ever-changing crowds of tourists, so he wouldn’t be too far from it.

“Access road,” John said when they’d gone about seven miles.

“Take it.”

The access road wasn’t paved, which meant a plume of dust followed behind them. Not great from a stealth perspective, but there wasn’t much to be done about that.

“He’s got to be here,” John said. 

“He is. Look.”

Rodney saw the antenna tower first, which turned out to be adjacent to a weather-beaten brown trailer. Johnson’s truck wasn’t in sight. John parked the car a little further up the road.

“That’s a pretty big antenna.”

“Let’s see what he’s transmitting.” Rodney reached into the backseat and pulled out his laptop. “If I can isolate it, a simple signal intrusion should be able to tell us what’s what.”

“What if he’s not broadcasting?”

“Then I’ll see what he’s pulling in,” Rodney explained. “Maybe he’s into Ukrainian porn.”

“Japanese stuff is better, if you can get your hands on it,” John said. “Korea is better for the gay stuff, though.”

Rodney didn’t bother commenting on that. There wasn’t anyone outside the porn industry that knew more about it than John, or so it seemed. Rodney wasn’t sure if he liked the shock factor of springing his vast knowledge on people, or if he really enjoyed it as much as he said he did.

“I’m gonna take a look around,” John said. “Let me know when you’ve got something.”

“Don’t do anything stupid. And watch out for scorpions.”

John just grinned at him and got out of the car. Rodney tried to keep one eye on his partner and one eye on the laptop, but quickly lost sight of John as he went around the other side of the trailer.

It didn’t take long to lock into the antenna’s frequency, but there was no information to be gained there because it was only powered up, not actively pulling or transmitting a signal. Rodney secured the frequency, ensuring any signals would be captured and rerouted to his laptop. If Johnson planned on transmitting, the signal wasn’t going to reach its destination.

John returned to the car once he’d conducted a thorough search of the grounds around the trailer.

“Well?” Rodney asked as John slid back behind the wheel.

“No mummies stacked up out back, if that’s what you’re wondering.” John pulled a bottle of water out of the pocket on the back of his seat. “I was able to get a look through a window, though, and whatever he’s got going with that antenna is way beyond ham radio.”

That aroused Rodney’s curiosity. “Let me see.”

John dutifully handed over his phone. Rodney scrolled through the pictures. They weren’t great, having been taking through a dirty window, but he could see enough to agree with his partner. The tech looked cobbled together, some of the components military grade. 

“Where the hell is he transmitting? Outer space?”

“Could be,” John replied. He didn’t wink, but Rodney could hear it in his voice. And really, he’d walked into that one.

“Or maybe he’s part of a terrorist cell and they’re planning something much bigger than a couple of mummies,” Rodney countered.

John looked thoughtful. “Vegas would offer a high casualty count, I suppose.”

Rodney scrolled one frame too far and rolled his eyes as he handed John back the phone. “Nice nipple. Yours?”

John just smirked. In the next moment he was all business. “Someone’s coming.”

A dust plume announced the arrival of Johnson. 

“He made us,” John said. 

“Thank you for that observation, Agent Obvious. It’s not like there’s any cover out here.”

Johnson’s truck fish-tailed when he pulled up to the trailer, and he sprinted in the front door. Rodney was about to suggest they proceed when caution when automatic gunfire erupted.

“Down!” John bellowed, pushing at Rodney as the car windows exploded.

The car rocked with the onslaught and Rodney was sure they were going to catch bullets passing through the doors. Just as suddenly as it started, the gunfire ended; the silence would have been deafening if Rodney could hear it over the ringing in his ears.

“What’s he doing?” John yelled.

Rodney reached for his laptop, which he’d put on the floor between his feet when Johnson’s truck had first approached. He flipped it open on his lap, sending a cascade of glass to the floor.

“He’s transmitting.”

“Can you tell what he’s sending?”

Rodney squinted at the data streaming across the monitor. “Coordinates. Shit.”

John turned the key. It took a couple tries but the car started, the engine running rough. Rodney could smell something burning.

“You got rental insurance, right?” John asked. He gave Rodney an all-too-familiar look.

“No! John –”

“Get out, McKay.”

“You can’t just –”

“Get out.”

Rodney scowled, but he got out of the car. He held the laptop in one hand, his gun in the other.

“You don’t have to do this, you idiot! I’m blocking the signal!”

There was no answer from John, just the sound of the engine revving. Rodney fumbled for his cell phone, hurriedly typing out a message and using the antenna tower as a booster. The car lurched forward, kicking up a cloud of dust and heading straight toward Johnson’s trailer. Correction. Straight toward the propane tank attached to Johnson’s trailer.

“You stupid, suicidal son-of-a-bitch!” Rodney shouted.

The laptop beeped at him and he quickly glanced at it. Johnson was trying to send his coordinates into deep space. That couldn’t be right.

The cloud of dust concealed the action from Rodney. He heard more gunfire from the trailer, heard the whining of the car engine. The explosion knocked him on his ass.

“John!”

Rodney choked on dry dust and black smoke. He left the laptop where it lay, hopefully undamaged, and kept low as he made his way to the burning, smoking remains of the trailer.

“Sheppard!”

He’d gotten out of the car in time, Rodney had no doubt about that. It wasn’t the first heroically stupid stunt John had pulled during their partnership, and any other outcome was unthinkable.

Rodney couldn’t get too close to the trailer, because the fire was burning hot and fast. Any evidence they might’ve had was literally up in smoke.

“Sheppard!”

The car was a charred and burning husk. And several feet away was Sheppard, lying in the dirt. He wasn’t moving, and his pant leg was on fire.

Rodney shrugged out of his jacket and used it to beat out the fire before he turned his attention to John’s other injuries. He’d taken a lot of shrapnel in the side, his standard-issue white button-down shirt soaked through with blood. The splint on his wrist had loosened, and there might have been more damage there.

“Damn it, John! You didn’t have to do that! His transmission wasn’t going anywhere!”

Rodney used his jacket to staunch the blood as much as he could. John’s face was pale below a layer of soot and dirt, his pulse weak but thankfully still there.

“You better hold on, you selfish bastard. You hear me? Help is coming. I got word out before you took out the tower. Needlessly, as I said before. Brains beats brute strength every time, why do you keep forgetting that?” Rodney tried to brush some of the dirt off John’s face. 

It was another ten minutes before he heard approaching vehicles. Rodney hadn’t expected LVPD to arrive so quickly, but any relief he might have felt was quashed when he saw three black SUVs rolling in. He was on his feet in an instant, weapon pulled.

“Stand down, Agent McKay,” said the black-suited man who got out of the first SUV. 

There were eight of them altogether, dressed identically in black suits and black shirts and sunglasses. All three vehicles had Colorado plates.

“This is an FBI scene,” Rodney said tersely. “Get lost.”

“Be reasonable. You’re outnumbered and outgunned.” The guy had a pleasant tone, as if they were discussing the weather. “We just want to help. Agent Sheppard needs medical attention.”

“Sell that bullshit story somewhere else.” Rodney was sure they were the same jerks that cleaned out Chambers’ hotel room. “No-one touches my partner.”

“We’re just here to help,” the guy repeated.

Rodney knew that was a lie, confirmed only a second later when they shot him with something that knocked him out, the flash of light following him into the dark. 

*o*o*o*

“I hate this town,” Rodney grumbled. “I don’t care if this is the site of the Second Coming, we’re never coming back to Vegas.”

John was too busy brooding to reply.

Whatever had knocked Rodney out in the desert, it had given the Men in Black time enough to sanitize the scene. The burnt-out trailer had been cleared of all electronics and the antenna tower had been removed. Johnson’s half-charred truck was still there, but his body was gone.

And somehow John’s life-threatening puncture wounds had morphed into painful but not serious lacerations. Rodney had no explanation for that. Just like he had no explanation for the mummies.

“Are you going to sit there like a lump, or finish packing? Because I’d like to get a move on.” Rodney zipped up his duffle. He didn’t like it when John got quiet, got too much in his own head. That wasn’t a healthy place to be. “The fire would’ve cooked the evidence. We were in a lose-lose situation.”

John shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

Rodney grabbed one of the pillows off the bed and threw it at John. “Stop being ridiculous.”

“I’m never going to find out the truth, am I? Something always snatches it away at the last minute.”

Nothing short of hard, physical evidence was going to convince Rodney that aliens were visiting Earth and abducting people. But he understood how important it was to John to believe his mother was still alive somewhere, a prisoner, or maybe a test subject, but alive.

Rodney sat next to him on the bed. “I’m an exceptional puzzle solver and you have the tenacity of a bulldog with a bone. If the truth is out there, we’ll find it.”

John leaned against Rodney, a shoulder bump that lingered way longer than it should have. 

“Thanks for having my back, McKay.”

“Don’t go getting all sappy on me. Finish packing.”

John’s hand twitched, touching Rodney’s for a brief moment, then he got up and started tossing things into his own duffle. It was a moment that could’ve led to something bigger, if only Rodney was brave enough to take the chance. But getting romantically involved with John would only further complicate their already complicated relationship.

Best to stick with his personal policy when it came to his feelings for John: deny everything.

“Our next case better be something normal,” Rodney grumbled as they walked out of the motel room.

“How do you define normal?” John quipped.

Rodney was absolutely drinking on the flight back to D.C.

**Author's Note:**

>  **AN:** I didn’t mean to write this. I popped in the X-Files soundtrack while I was driving and suddenly a story wanted to be written. To the point where I was losing sleep and threatening other deadlines. I may have also binge watched a couple seasons worth of eps. Title is a quote from season two episode ‘3’. 
> 
> While I was contemplating a possible case for these guys to work, I suddenly thought of Vegas ‘verse. So this became a different take on that. I am not now, nor have I ever been, a federal agent. I went with fun over realism. ::grins::
> 
> Yes, there is a branch FBI office in Las Vegas. But we’re going to ignore them because this is clearly a case for Spooky Sheppard. We'll also ignore all the tech stuff, because I don't know anything about that either. LOL! This fic is a tissue of lies!
> 
> Gifting this to X-Files and McShep fan and SGA champion Squidgie, and faithful reader and thoughtful commenter ArwenOak. I appreciate both of you and wish you a very happy More Joy Day!


End file.
